Jenny Lopez Saves Christmas

  ‘Jen-ny,’ she said slowly. In fairness, the girl’s smile never faltered. If she weren’t married to the love of my life, I would have considered hiring her myself. ‘You dated Jeff?’

  ‘A million years ago,’ I repeated, trying out an experimental laugh. It didn’t really work. ‘A million trillion.’

  ‘You’re Jenny who he lived with?’ she asked as her expression clouded slightly. ‘Like, forever ago?’

  I felt like Carrie Anne had kicked a puppy in the face and then handed it to me.

  ‘Forever and ever.’

  The only way I could get out of this was to pretend it didn’t feel like I’d had my stomach sliced open and someone was running around the room using my intestines as streamers. What did I care if the only man I’d ever loved was married to this adorable, much younger, much blonder girl. She was wearing flats, for Christ’s sake. Who wore flats to a launch?

  ‘I’ll tell him you said hi … ’ Shannon’s brows started to knit together as all the stories, all the terrible his-side-of-them stories, fell into place. She wrapped her arms around herself and began to back away. ‘It was nice to meet you.’

  ‘You too,’ I said, hating myself for noticing that she was a little chubby and her dress clung around her belly.

  Oh, holy shit. She wasn’t fat. She was pregnant.

  My ex-boyfriend’s child bride was pregnant.

  Jeff wasn’t just married, he was having a baby. And here I was, dressed like a very expensive stripper, waiting for my co-dependent flatmate to finish whoring herself out over a handbag so we could go home, order pizza and sob ourselves to single sleep. I pressed my hand to my forehead and stumbled back over to the coat check. Free bags and roommates be damned, I had to get out of there. Sadie would understand as long as I bought the pizza.

  I might as well stop by the shelter on my way, I reasoned. Pick out a couple of unwanted cats and call it a day.

  Chapter Two

  ‘I still can’t believe Jeff is having a baby.’

  Erin, my boss and non-Brit BFF, picked up a beautiful Proenza Schouler handbag and turned it over in her hands. I watched as every assistant in Barneys straightened their spine, only to slump back down when she put it back on the shelf. ‘He was such a dude. Can a bro have a baby?’

  ‘Uh, you have two, and I can think of a time when I wouldn’t even bother calling you on a Friday night, I would just head straight to Bungalow 8 and there you were,’ I pointed out, picking up the same PS bag and barely getting a shrug from the assistants. I didn’t give off the same rich vibe that Erin did. Because no one was as rich as Erin.

  ‘That’s not true,’ she said, turning her attention to the Saint Laurent collection. ‘Sometimes I was at Tunnel.’

  ‘I stand corrected.’

  Barneys was a cut above the rest of the Manhattan department stores when it came to seasonal cheer. You knew what time of year it was, they had the requisite holiday window displays, but they weren’t all in your face with holly-jolly-happy crap as soon as you walked through the door. It was a safe place when you were ambivalent towards the fat guy in the suit, and ever since my coffee with Angie the day before, ambivalence was pretty much the most positive emotion I could muster.

  ‘Anyway, that’s not my point.’ Erin smoothed her long, honey-blonde ponytail and tucked it inside her beautiful navy blue wool coat, the collar turned up against the harsh weather. Last-minute Christmas shopping had seemed like a great idea when she’d suggested it, but I had agreed before I remembered how badly the weather sucked and that Erin had a private driver. All I had was Uber, and of course when I left the apartment there were no cars available. ‘My point is, what does it matter if he’s having a baby? You have an awesome life. All he has is a wife.’

  ‘My life is not awesome, Erin,’ I said, trying not to show the rage my voice. It wasn’t right, not in the hallowed halls of Barneys. And not with the hangover I had from sinking one too many homemade cocktails with Sadie after that shit-show of an afternoon. ‘I have a great job, sure, but what else do I have? You’re married, you have two kids, you own your own business. Angie has the magazine and Alex, even Sadie is gonna be snatched up before I know it. All I have is a vague promise from the flakiest gay dude I ever met to put a baby in me when I get desperate. And that’s a significantly downgraded offer from where we started out.’

  Erin pursed her lips and carried on touching up the handbags. She had never approved of my arrangement with Angie’s friend James to co-parent, but I could only see an upside. I really wanted to start a family, and given that I made Taylor Swift look like someone who had her romantic life together, the idea of having a baby with a really rich, really attractive man who would never cheat on me, break my heart or steal my money kind of appealed. But of course, like everyone else but me on this planet, he met a man and was suddenly cured of his baby fever, so here I was, back at square one.

  ‘When was the last time you went on a date?’ Erin asked, unbuttoning her coat to reveal a beautiful snow-white cashmere sweater. I left my jacket zipped up so she so wouldn’t see where I had spilled coffee down myself on the way over. I was not a spiller, but the morning had been tough. ‘You can’t complain that the fish aren’t biting if you aren’t dangling any bait.’

  ‘I dangle,’ I protested. ‘It’s just been a while.’

  ‘What about that guy you were talking to at my holiday party?’ she asked. ‘He seemed super into you.’

  ‘Erin, he was a magician,’ I said, not even faintly amused. ‘It’s one step up from clown and that’s one step up from suicidal homeless guy. No thank you.’

  ‘Yeah, okay,’ she relented. ‘You’re not marrying a magician − I can’t have that around my kids. But we need to get you back on track.’

  I nodded, reaching out for a beautiful black leather Alexander Wang backpack, wondering whether or not it was the kind of purse that said strong, successful woman looking for Mr Right. Without a word, Erin snatched it out of my hands and set it back on the shelf. Apparently it was not.

  ‘No backpacks,’ she said, cutting me off as I opened my mouth to defend myself. ‘I don’t give two shits what Vogue says, you’re not in high school, you’re not Cara Delevingne, no backpacks.’

  ‘I do have her eyebrows,’ I said, peering into a nearby mirror. ‘And, like, three of her ass.’

  ‘She’s a child,’ Erin replied. ‘She has no ass. Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘See, this is why I need to have a baby,’ I said, marvelling at my friend. ‘I remember when you wouldn’t wear pants unless you could bounce a quarter off your ass. I need that Zen attitude.’

  ‘It’s not Zen,’ she said weakly. ‘It’s giving up. You could bounce a roll of quarters off my ass these days and they’d just sink right in. It’s devastating.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll get fat over the holidays,’ I said, pinching at the stubborn flesh on my thighs that no number of squats could get rid of. ‘I’m pretty sure working out is killing my will to live.’

  ‘What are you doing for Christmas?’ she asked, blatantly ignoring my pity-party. ‘Spending it with Angie and Alex again?’

  Again. Ew.

  ‘Way to make me sound like a super loser,’ I said. ‘As it happens, Angie yes, Alex no. He’s still on tour, remember?’

  ‘Oh yeah.’ She shook her head and smiled. ‘I suck. Why is it that I can manage fifty women with one hand tied behind my back, but when you leave me at home with two kids under three, I lose my mind inside two days?’

  ‘You have me to help out in the office,’ I reasoned. ‘I’m pretty great.’

  ‘It’s true,’ she said, holding up a black crocodile Lanvin box bag. ‘You like?’

  ‘I love.’ I didn’t want to even look at the price tag. I was making good money in my job now, but I’d only just paid off all my credit cards and the exciting debt I’d managed to work up during my making shitty money period. I did not have inexpensive tastes, and living by a budget was killing me. ‘I just need a rich h
usband to buy it for me.’

  ‘What about that guy?’ Erin nodded towards a tall, blond guy in a black wool coat across the way. ‘Cute, cute, cute.’

  ‘Married, married, married,’ I replied. ‘Why else would he be shopping in Barneys four days before Christmas?’

  ‘Good son? Divorced dad?’ Erin rattled through her list of possibilities. ‘Gay?’

  He caught me looking and smiled before I could look away.

  ‘Oh God,’ I whispered. ‘He’s gay.’

  ‘Let’s go find out,’ she said, her eyes bright with the kind of courage that only came to married women who had nothing to lose. I had forgotten how much she liked to play wingman, and apparently I’d also lost my balls. Suddenly, I was petrified.

  ‘Hi, wow, those are some nice pieces.’

  Erin propped herself up on the glass counter beside the man. I peeped over her shoulder sheepishly, fully aware that while he might not be able to see my face, he could definitely see my hair. Today was the day it had decided to be huge, and today was the day I had decided I didn’t care enough to do anything about it. So of course this was happening.

  ‘Who are you buying for?’

  It was brazen. It was brilliant. It was straight out of the Jenny Lopez playbook.

  Or at least it used to be. I couldn’t remember the last time I had hit on a guy. I could barely remember the last time I’d had sex, and in all honesty, I kind of wished I could forget it anyway. It had not been good.

  ‘Um, my assistant,’ the man replied, waving his hand over the counter. No wedding ring. Score. ‘But I’m not sure which one he would like the best.’

  Erin considered the four almost identical black leather wallets on the counter.

  ‘Straight or gay?’ she asked.

  ‘Wha … ahh … I’m straight?’ the man said, tiny spots of red flushing in his cheeks. Oh, le swoon.

  ‘Not you!’ Erin gave a tiny laugh that would have put Tinkerbell to shame and rested her hand on the man’s forearm. ‘Your assistant.’

  ‘Oh, sure, of course.’ His stammer only made him cuter, I thought, as he pushed his hand through his expensive haircut. Blond, tall, tan in the middle of winter and shopping at Barneys. Just how I liked ’em. ‘He’s gay.’

  ‘You know what, I am really bad at choosing gifts for other people,’ Erin said, stepping back and pushing me in front of our new friend. ‘But Jenny has the best taste. She used to be a stylist, actually. I bet she could pick the right one.’

  Oh, she was so good.

  ‘Hi,’ I said, trying to comb my hair down and shake his hand at the same time. ‘I’m Jenny.’

  ‘Joe,’ the man replied. ‘Joseph. Although no one calls me Joseph any more.’

  ‘Would you like me to?’ I asked, wishing I’d had time to put on lip gloss. ‘Make you feel all important?’

  He blushed again and I felt Erin pat me on the ass before sneaking away to look at the Philip Lim bags.

  ‘So, we want a wallet for your assistant,’ I said, looking over the shop assistant’s selection. They were all pretty nice − Fendi, Saint Laurent, Dries Van Noten. ‘Can I ask a sensitive question?’

  Joe smiled. ‘Please do.’

  ‘When you say he’s gay,’ I asked, ‘how gay are we talking?’

  ‘We work in a pretty conservative law firm,’ he replied. ‘And everyone knows.’

  ‘Great, he’s out and proud, that makes this easy.’ I pointed towards the black studded Saint Laurent billfold. ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘You’re sure?’ he said. ‘You don’t think the one with the chain?’

  ‘You want him to know you appreciate him and totally support who he is, right?’ I said, nodding to the assistant to fetch a new, boxed-up wallet. ‘You don’t want to suggest he come into the office in a leather gimp suit and spank you.’

  Joe’s eyes widened for a moment.

  ‘Unless you do?’ I stopped breathing, my heart pounding and sinking at the same time.

  ‘Oh, no-no-no!’ He waved his hands at me so fast they were just a blur. ‘I mean, at least not in the office anyway. I’m a partner, it’s frowned upon.’

  ‘Shows what I know,’ I said, exhaling loudly. ‘I thought that was the kind of thing that would get you boosted up to senior partner.’

  ‘Maybe that’s where I’ve been going wrong.’ His big green eyes sparkled. But then everything sparkled under the lights in Barneys. ‘Any more career advice?’

  ‘Hmm.’ I looked away for a moment and then looked back. Got him. ‘Usually it’s a two-drink minimum.’

  I could feel myself bubbling up. I remembered this! This was flirting! It was fun!

  ‘That sounds fair,’ he said, handing a black Amex to the assistant and a white business card to me. I kind of wished it was the other way around, but hey, baby steps. ‘This is me, but maybe I should take your number? In case I have any urgent questions?’

  ‘Okay, but only if they’re super urgent,’ I said, my hand shaking a little as I dived into my purse for a business card. ‘It was nice to meet you.’

  ‘Likewise.’ He tucked my card into his wallet and showed off his pricey orthodontic work. I was a sucker for a killer smile. ‘I’ll speak to you soon, Miss Lopez.’

  Without another word, I smiled, shrugged and turned to walk away. It would not be cool for him to see how ridiculously excited I was.

  My very first Christmas miracle.

  Chapter Three

  ‘Erin White PR, Happy holidays.’

  When I closed my eyes at night, I could hear those words ringing in my ears. It was chilling. Our receptionist shot me a bright grin every time she answered the phone, but on this particular Monday morning, her good mood wasn’t catching. It was only December 22nd and I was so over Christmas. I still couldn’t twist my brain round the fact that Jeff had impregnated another woman, and the buzz from my Barneys boyfriend had totally worn off already. It had been twenty-four hours and he hadn’t called. The three-day rule meant nothing these days: Tinder had destroyed all sense of social grace when it came to dating and so I figured I wouldn’t be hearing from him now so close to the holidays. And Angie kept pooh-poohing all of my plans for the day itself. Right now, all I wanted to do was dig out my John Hughes box set, order eighteen pizzas and call the whole thing off.

  Kicking off my dumb I’m-the-boss-so-it-doesn’t-matter-that-these-bad-boys-are-too-high-to-walk-in heels, I stumbled round my desk and pushed the door to my office shut with a thunk. I had to admit, I wasn’t exactly full of the season of goodwill. Everyone in the office was winding down. Half the girls were already on vacation, and everyone else was buzzing with holiday plans and New Year’s excitement. I could tell they’d already given up: more than half of them were wearing jeans.

  It wasn’t like I ruled Erin’s office with an iron fist, but, in my mind, when you worked in PR you had to project a certain image. When I first started working for Erin, everyone dressed as though Anna Wintour might stroll through the office at any second. Which was just silly − everyone knew you went to Anna, not the other way round. But pre-baby Erin commanded a similar kind of sartorial respect. She had that uncanny ability to put on any outfit and look impeccably put together. Her heels were never lower than three inches and her handbag was always better than your handbag. Now she was a full-time baby mama, we only saw Erin on the floor once, maybe twice a week, and so I was more or less in charge of managing the accounts (the creative and the people side of things at least; the COO looked after the financial. Only a fool would put me in charge of the financials, and Erin was anything but that). It was fair to say the office fashion stakes had relaxed a little, whether I liked it or not.

  I considered my leather pants and slouchy sweater and sighed. I always looked good, but maybe I could look sharper. Until the little voice in my head, the one with the uncanny British accent, reminded me that sharper took a lot more effort and a damn sight more money. Looking good was tough enough: if you weren’t born with razor-sharp cheekbo
nes and an Hermès Birkin, it was a tough style to cultivate and I was already investing so much energy in keeping my hair under control …

  A sharp rap on my window snapped me to my sad senses.

  ‘Jenny, there’s a call for you.’

  I nodded and popped in my earpiece. Ever since I read an article in Oprah’s magazine about how much bacteria is on your phone handset, I’ve never put one within six feet of my precious face.

  ‘Hello, Jenny speaking.’

  ‘Jenny, it’s Stephen Hall. How are you?’

  Just like that, I was fucking fantastic.

  ‘Stephen, lover, where have you been all my life?’ I pressed my hands together and offered up a prayer to the wonderful baby Jesus who had clearly had a hand in this phone call. ‘You never write, you never call, what’s going on?’

  Stephen Hall was a senior consultant for MUMH, one of the biggest marketing agencies in North America and a real cash cow if you could get in with them, which we never had. He was also super hot and a total whore. I’d been trying to get inside his pants and his business for about three years, and it was a real toss-up as to which I’d prefer.

  ‘You know me, I’m a slave to the job,’ he purred down the line. I curled my legs up underneath me and let his voice wash over me. Screw the company, I would give anything for a go on that guy. I hadn’t gotten laid in months and just the sound of his voice was enough to give me a serious ladyboner. ‘But here I am, sat looking at the marketing strategy for my new client and would you believe there’s no PR in here?’

  ‘Seems like an oversight to me,’ I replied. Damn it, he wanted to talk business.

  ‘Right?’ he agreed. ‘And while it’s not exactly what I’d like to give you for Christmas, how about I send all the info over and you put together a pitch? You know I’d love for us to put our heads together on this one.’